


Hold on Tight (Something Wicked This Way Comes)

by StripySock



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Community: j2_everafter, First Kiss, M/M, Mild Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jared comes back home near Halloween, the Circus arrives- and makes Jensen an offer he can't refuse, while Jared must work to save him.</p><p>Inspired by Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold on Tight (Something Wicked This Way Comes)

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to 3pomegranate for their help, and to the mods for running this challenge one last time!

The train comes to a stop and Jared leaps down; home air hitting the back of his throat, the familiarity crawling to the fore, smell of cotton candy on the wind, the faint scent of burning, a bonfire that shouldn't be lit- not at this time, and the elusive sense of time passing; all of which hit him right down deep, making him shudder with satisfaction, shiver with glee, and feel the full force of youth hit once more. His feet itch on the sidewalk; he wants to run, wants to dash home and hug his dad, spin his mother ‘til she laughs with dizziness and tells him to stop, stop, the dinner will burn.

 

In his old almost worn out white tennis shoes, a breath of life still remains, fond remembrances of old times passed, tracks run, buses caught, football played in parks; of treading deep in mud, bathing deep in brightener. His feet twitch, and he debates it; debates throwing aside his bags and laptop case in favour of catching the last swirl of wind that echoes down the street; that will breeze him back home to its enfolding warmth.

 

But he's not twelve, not thirteen, and he slings his bags on more firmly on with a sigh and walks home, nose in the air, still breathing in deep with his eyes turned upwards; the deep-shaded blue of a crisp autumn day splashed across the sky like the gleeful riot of a painter's brush given only one colour to play with. His right hand firmly grips the broken strap of a bag asked to carry too much, filled with books beyond the point of no return, compressed pages of parchment paper breathing silent secrets to their crushed brethren, while his other hand is stuffed deep inside his pocket, warm inside the wool lining, his cell clutched in his hand as though he still ponders the wisdom of replying to his mother's text enquiring the time of his arrival.

 

If he had replied they'd have been there; a joyful bustle, faces smiling as his bags are passed from hand to hand and stowed in the back of the car, his father, clasping his hand as though embracing in public is still beyond him, saving it for the moment before sleep, his mother a perfumed whirlwind in her one piece of designer clothing- the coat bought twenty one years ago after his birth, fresh and new still, taken out for special occasions like the safe return of her son. She'd kiss him once on each cheek, a habit acquired in the eighties and never lost, it seems, just another quirk that the town arches its eyebrows at her over despite liking her well enough. She is foreign, different, other, and Jared loves her with an almost helpless love.

 

But the cell goes untouched; never typed characters hovering like the ghosts of words in his pocket. This is the best part of returning home; walking down the street and seeing all the people he knows. When his friends from college had told him with a laugh that he must be bored silly when he goes back home, Jared had smiled a secret smile, unable to explain to them the charm of his hometown and those who live there.

 

The wind returns and whips his ears as though in chastisement for his failure to hurry; to skip and run like he once would have, speeding down the street as Mr. Ryson the old barber who runs the one barber shop in town, tips a non-existent hat and calls out that he needs a haircut, the words laced with old humour between them at the remembrance of how Jared fought that first haircut- and all the ones since. Jared can't remember a time when Mr. Ryson was young; he's always been old and bent and smiling, his full head of hair (a magnificent advert for business) has always been white, and his face has always had those deep lines around his eyes and mouth from laughing too much. Like the sweetshop next door, he's always been a part of the town, no-one remembers a time without him; he cut Jared's father's hair, and he jokes that he'll cut the hair of Jared's son if Jared would just hurry up and settle down.

 

But there's no time to pass in quiet chat in the cool serenity of the barber parlour, with a brush twisting and pulling strands together as they talk. Jared must be away, and he salutes the old barber in return with a laughing wave and continues on. No matter how long he has been away, the route calls to him, guides his so it takes no effort at all, to follow the curve of the path until he looks up and there stands his house.

 

It's untouched by time; a gracious building twined with ivy, framed by sturdy wooden lintels that look as though they've always been there and unbidden a smile stretches Jared's mouth. He's home, and he feels the same tingle as always shoot down his hands when he glances at the house next door where Jensen lives. He should be home. He's the only one who knew when Jared had planned to arrive; had snapped him a picture of the Halloween tree that ornaments the square and sent it just last night, thumb obscuring the top of the shot, like a spreading shadow across the scene. But the house is dark and cool and empty, and when the wind blows it sighs around it as though it can only speak of loss.

 

Jared shivers and rings the doorbell, lets the heavy bags drop to his feet, and hugs his arms around himself, obscurely chilled. He could open the door, let himself slip inside and surprise them in the kitchen, but he wants that moment of homecoming, of stepping over the threshold and into the house, and when his mother opens the door, wiping her hands on a tea-towel, it's worth everything to see her smile, the breaking moon of her face and its round eyed surprise before she composes herself and sweeps herself to him. Then his father is there, arms round them both, and while Jared doesn't regret for a moment his decision to travel the summer through- June in Laos, July in Sydney, August in Cornwall, a long September shading into October in Spain- he does miss _this_ ; has missed them. It seems a long time since April and the Spring Fling spent at home, heedless of the jeers of his more decadent friends, and with a queer thrill of sadness, he notes the grey in his father's hair and the way his mother’s smile creases her face in new ways. Changes made so subtly that if he’d been here he’d never have noticed them strike him now as poignant, and he’s filled with a faint autumnal sadness as he crushes them both to him fiercely.

 

The sobering thoughts disappear when he sees them beam at him, united around him, and his father puts the kettle on, spreads out the cookies (store bought not homemade; neither of his parents cook unless they have to), and they sit him at the table like they’ve always done to listen to his stories. He curls his hands around the cup of coffee they hand him, letting it warm himself through, and breathes in the scent of home, as he tells them of what he’s seen and who he met, while the dark draws in outside, swift and shadowing, curving around the light of their windows, until finally he runs out of breath, lets go of the coffee cup, and grins at them a little bashfully, his throat grown sore from talking.

 

He’s not embarrassed for his mother doesn’t suffer fools, and his father has never mastered the art of polite listening, at least not for hours on end but Jared’s glad for a break to sit back in his turn, and let their smoky-rich voices envelop him with news. Small news perhaps; his father doesn’t read the papers these days, prefers to get his news from his mother, filtered through her idiosyncratic perceptions, tinted with rose sometimes, darker than black at other times, guided by her mood and whatever her current genre of her literature is- writing or reading. When at night she reads Dante, Aquinas, Gunther Grass, James Hogg, the Brontës, Mrs Radclyffe, the news takes on a bleak forecast and the world tumbles and crumbles on the edge of a cliff, dances on a grassy edge of hurricanes, storms, deaths, murders, Presidential failings. If her reading strays to lighter pastures, abandons the sketches of Caravaggio and the Death of St Sebastian, indulges in Austen, Wodehouse, Stratchey; when she hums Gilbert & Sullivan as she dusts, then the news brightens in its turn; kittens are saved from trees, children rescued from burning buildings, women wrestle guns from muggers, heroes have their time in the limelight; the big pages skipped in favour of lightness and charm.

 

Now, though, they speak in turn, tell him of the births and deaths and marriages with names that used to mean so much to him, those in his graduating class who stayed in town and married straight out of school, worked honestly, honourably, and became upstanding and forgettable. He asks after Jensen, of course; watches with interest though he cannot parse the meaning of the long look they share with each other before they tell him Jensen is well, back home two weeks now, the same green-eyed charmer he’s always been, mowing their lawn for a final time since Jared hadn’t been there, pressing down deep into the earth with dirty hands under Jared’s mother’s direction as he does the winter bedding for her.

 

Jensen is Jensen, adds his father, and there is deep-seated affection there, just as there has always been between them. Jensen has a mother who loves him, is independent, cat-like, walks alone in the gathering dark (except when Jared runs beside him), but still the Padaleckis keep him close in their thoughts,

 

Their names have been one since first they could walk; JaredandJensen, JensenandJared and all too often just grouped together as _those two_ or _those naughty boys,_ or as they grew, his mother’s quick tongue christening them the Inseparables, joined at the hip, two scenes shaded in dark and light to create a complete picture- one whole boy climbing trees and chasing cats, breaking windows, fixing them up, stealing sweets and paying in penance by cleaning floors, a whole boy who ate apples and drank well water from Farmer Pritchard’s land when he should be in school, too many readings of Tom Sawyer in class convincing them to try skipping class; the orchard the only place they could successfully hide where prying eyes wouldn’t find them.

 

Jared asks no more. If Jensen is home, then he will see him later, climbing hand over fist up the iron bars inset into the side of the house, swinging up the tree for the last bit with the remnants of their childhood clinging to him like charming rags. Jared can wait until then, though he might not want to. However long he spends away from home, Jensen is Jensen.

 

When the clock strikes twelve, his father sweeps the crumbs into his hand and gathers the cups to put them in the dishwasher, and his mother pulls down the shades, one by one, blocking out the night, casual ritual entwining as usual, and Jared hugs them both good night, his senses still chasing the comforting scent of home. When he climbs the stairs, the lights dance ahead like they're welcoming him as well, and when he opens the door his bed is made, towels lurk on the chair, and the light is on, and a smile twitches his lips. They'd known he would be home today. When he tucks himself in deep between the blankets, he feels the night wrap itself around him.

 

A faint tap at the window, the spindly branch of the arching tree or a lonely bird mistaking the dim light from the hall way for nest-home? Jared turns and is not surprised when Jensen lifts up the sash from the outside and slips in. He pretends to be asleep so Jensen will bend over and wake him up and be subjected to a customary blanket attack. But Jensen, contrary as usual, settles himself into a chair and stares at him until Jared opens his eyes with a grin. Jensen blends in perfectly with the corners of the room until Jared turns on the lamp beside his bed and he springs as fully formed from the darkness, as Athena from Zeus's skull. His eyes are green as always, his smile just as ready, and Jared feels the familiar shivering of spring run through him at the sight. He sits up, throws aside the blankets, and hugs Jensen close and tight, for one heartbeat, one breath, before he pulls away, fearful of their closeness, strangely shy after a summer of absence.

 

They're no longer children; he realises that with a sudden aching ferocity, as he hadn't realised at age eighteen when they blew out their final birthday cake candles together, age nineteen the first time he'd flown home from college and they'd wrestled for the rights to the remote, twenty when they'd taken the train out west to catch up with the circus in old traditions holding strong, twenty one when Jared had made his way to Jensen's college and they'd celebrated being old enough to drink in the usual fashion. Those past birthdays cluster round him, try to drag Jared back to times past, but this is here and now, and Jensen is almost a stranger to him, which is ridiculous since Jensen could never be a stranger.

 

They've been two sides of the same coin for so long, JensenandJared, JaredandJensen, one born on the final stroke of midnight, October 30th, the other on the first second of October 31st; two babies crying in tandem as the new day snaked in, birthdays shared, a lifetime split between them equally, Jared gazing at the earth, Jensen at the sky. But now when Jared looks at Jensen, he has to swallow back what he feels, the ridiculous swoop of emotion that threatens to overwhelm him, that he knows Jensen won't understand, _can't_ understand.

 

Space opens between them, long inches, tired seconds, until Jensen crashes through it with his crooked smile, and lithe movements as he saunters back over to the window.

 

"Too tired?" he asks, and the words are a friendly taunt, a challenge, gauntlets clattering to the floor as he speaks, and fire itches up, flames in Jared's veins, as he takes them up. In moments they're on the ground, night misty around them, the sidewalk eager under their feet as they take off, strides in perfect synch for a few short moments before Jared's longer gait shows its advantage and Jensen bends his head to the plough and pushes on against it.

 

They did track in high school, measuring every moment from heel to toe, practicing at night like this, sucking in cool air for sustenance, relying on the moon for lighting, no destination in mind except perhaps the town park where they can throw themselves down on cool hard ground, and sink fingers deep into rich October-dead earth.

 

Jared doesn't know how long they run, only that while their strides never match, they run shoulder to shoulder, instinctively adjusting for each other until their flying feet bring them past the first poster, and they stop dead together breathing deeply as their eyes devour the colours, the words, the rustled curve of the paper where it sits snug against the wood of the tree, a homecoming for both.

 

CIRCUS

 

The poster proclaims, and from the picture riots a profusion of lions, clowns, snakes and in smaller letters, it tells of Ice Maidens, Dust Witches, Illustrated Men, and other wild wonders that can only be seen within its constructs. Jared feels Jensen let go of a gasp and lets himself smile. The circus is their playground, always has been, filed with rides that they’d ducked between until they’d grown exhausted, thick smells of food and crowds and animals that beat into their senses, and elephants and other exotic animals that paced corrals and cages. The Circus was first baby rides then years of daring each other onto the scariest rides, until they began to shoot up and the rides lost their thrill; were then substituted with first kisses on the Ferris Wheel with Emma Jacobs, cotton candy clinging to her lips, mouths pressing together until the world tasted sugary sweet, bumper cars that served as flirting devices and the haunted house providing opportunities to cling tight, deliciously scared for a few seconds.

 

Growing up, they'd never missed one- if it wasn’t Jensen chucking stones at Jared's windows to let him know the Circus has come to town, it was Jared scrambling up the stairs to holler the news to Jensen- and it's never lost its charm or appeal. Now the excitement bleeds through their veins. Soon they’ll be gone again, scattered to the winds; Jensen taking his first step onto the politics ladder, shadowing a senator, considering press releases, and Jared putting his degree to good use as he becomes a lawyer, slogs through law school, and then decides between the big city life or taking up the standing offer in his home-town firm. Either way they’ll be apart, he thinks, and that clutches painfully at his heart. Not coming home to Jensen will be a shock to the system. But before that happens, in the time they have left, it seems right and fitting that they should visit one more circus together.

 

When Jared touches the paper, it crumbles under his hands, disintegrating like centuries old manuscript unable to withstand the lightest touch, and the dust powders his hands, floats into the distance. Jensen looks at his fingers, eyes narrowed and secret, raises his face to meet Jared’s eyes and says in a voice so quiet it doesn’t seem real, “ _Dust Witch,”_ and now when the shiver runs through Jared it’s because it feels like ice-cold water has been poured down his back _. Witches aren’t real,_ he wants to say but the sounds die in his mouth, which is so dry that a river couldn’t quench his sudden thirst. He doesn’t know this Jensen, who looks at him so speculatively for so long; the light of the moon brushing his face with different angles and his eyes are dark and hollowed while he gives off no heat. He wants to take Jensen back home, turn on the light and close the curtains; block out the night.

 

He wipes his hand on his pants carelessly and turns his face away, sets off back home hoping Jensen will follow, but no footsteps sound beside him, and when he looks back, Jensen has hunkered down to do a lace up like he hopes Jared will leave him to catch up in a minute. But Jensen’s laces are tight and secure already, it’s plain to see, and Jared jogs back to his side. “Come on back,” he says, hopes with every fibre of his body that Jensen will agree. The other man isn’t listening though.

 

He’s tilted his face up with a strange look of exultation. “Can you smell that?” he whispers. On the autumn wind drifts a sweet strange smell of cotton candy, huge pink sticks of it, spun sugar so sticky that it lingers for days, faint traces of it on your hands and on your mouth, gossamer remnants lingering like ghosts. Jared lifts his nose and smells, drags in air deep and inhales the shimmering scent. _Circus_ it breathes to him. _The Circus is here._ When he’s done smelling, his ear catches the sounds; tin clashing against tin, the faint hurrahs of children circling clowns, barrel organs playing tunes as old as time, queerly repetitive until they seem to sink into the beat of his heart. _Boom_ goes the drum, and his heart answers back.

 

He can taste the cotton candy on his tongue, melting away, giving place to the tangy taste of mustard, ketchup, extra onions, bread and hot dog, and Jared’s mouth waters despite himself; dinner seems so many hours ago, and he can practically taste every memory of the carnival foods, washed down with cool lemonade, gulped down in quick bites before he dashes for the rides, Jensen at his side, always. He doesn’t know how long they stand there, but when Jensen puts a cold hand on his arm and tugs him towards the edge of town he doesn’t resist.

 

Down they pound, past Blackberry Avenue, devoid of blackberries, through the tiny maze of streets, with a purpose now. There is a common; a piece of land every circus pitches its tent on, just outside the town, too far to run by a long shot, but Jensen doesn’t seem to car. And although tiredness is creeping into his bones, slow and hot and heavy, dragging down his legs until he stumbles, Jared follows like he’s always done.

 

He doesn’t know how long they run, how far they have still to go; only knows that Jensen must’ve done some serious running in his time at college to keep running at the speeds he’s doing. They no longer stride shoulder to shoulder, a matched pair dashing through the night; Jensen is three steps ahead, a shadow fleeting across the town, and Jared keeps his eyes fixed grimly on his shoulders as though he’ll lose him if he blinks, and Jensen will become part of the darkness, blend into the night, and leave Jared behind. It’s a  little like a dream, the haziness and sheer unreality of it all, and he blinks his eyes hard several times like that might wake him up. It feels like he’s been running forever, like he can never stop, and his breath is beginning to come hard, burning through his lungs, and by the time Jensen halts, Jared doesn’t think he can run another step. He falls to the ground, gasping, and sucking in as much oxygen as he can, as fast as he can. Jensen is doing the same thing, and his hands tremble by his sides. He doesn’t seem to notice it though; his eyes are fixed on the spectacle before him.

 

Jared almost forgets to breathe as well when he sees, spread before them, _the Circus._ It’s like nothing he has ever seen before, lifted straight from the past and planted firmly, squarely before them. There is no colour at all, bar muted shades of black, white and grey. The lights that should glow deep amber, inviting yellow, joyful orange, are pure white, shielded by steel lanterns, and they cast into relief the bizarre nature of the attraction. There are no Screamer rides, no Pirate Boats or any of the other terrifying constructions that they take for granted. There is a merry go round, several booths with guns and strong men to challenge your arm’s strength against, and dozens of ancient rides and countless little tents with painted signs and sides advertising the terrible, the wonderful, the beautiful, the hideous, anything and everything one can imagine. It’s as if time has opened its maw and disgorged the past, complete in every detail, and the cotton candy smell runs through the air again, stronger than ever. Wild animals pace in cages, and surely circuses aren’t even allowed to _do_ that anymore?

 

Jensen’s walking forward now, eyes bright and strange in the reflected lights, and Jared seizes his arm, dread spiraling through him. “Don’t,” he says, through still-struggling mouthfuls of air. He can’t articulate why not, just that the thought of walking down there, into that den, terrifies him beyond compare, and he doesn’t scare easy. Jensen’s eyes darken.

 

“Are you scared?” Jensen asks, and it’s not a taunt, but the bleak curiosity in his voice whips Jared into following him more than a jeer ever could. He’s never backed down from a challenge in his life. They pant down the field, and the music strikes up louder, lures them in. Tigers snarl at them, and the wind sweeps around them, brings music to their ears along with the clank and scrape of metal- the sleep sounds of the circus calming and settling down for the night. Before them, as if everything else had melted to one side, there is the mirror maze. Huge and unsettling, it looms over every other structure with its doors thrown open, darkness exuding in fine wafts. Inside are enticing gleams that drag their feet forwards.

 

A hand settles on Jared’s arm and Jensen’s shoulder, and when they turn, a man in a black cloak smiles at them, flashes fine teeth and disdainful eyes. “Out late boys,” he comments. “It’s soul hour, don’t you know?” Sure enough the far-away clock chimes out three times. He hustles closer to them, bone-fingers grasping tight. “A fine thing isn’t it?” he says and nods to the house of mirrors that stands before them. “What do you want to see boys? Want a glimpse of the future, a glimpse of the past? Want to see Gettysburg, the dinosaurs, spaceships on far distant worlds?”

 

He's talking to them both, but he's looking solely at Jensen, and Jared can feel the concentrated malevolence behind that look, pure distilled evil saturating his salesman’s patter, and he shudders free from the man's hand, throws it off, but Jensen doesn't move, seems hypnotised by the other man, who was crooning now.

 

"No," he says, and it's in soft, almost reverential tones. "That's not what you want at all is it?" He smiles then, a cruel white slash in the middle of his paper face, crumpling in folds like a sad marionette with its strings cut. "I can offer you other things," he says, and when he exhales, death ventures forth. "I can show you Troy, show you Alexander trampling Thebes and destroying Persia, Genghis Khan and all his armies. I can show you how they lived, how they died and how you can excel beyond them." And Jared sees with a sick horror that his fingers have extended, that they now seem like claws sprouting forth, and his mind is repeating helplessly _this is a dream_ , but he can't make himself believe it, and still the man talks. "I can show you Augustus," he says, and his voice enchants, "show you the glory and might of Rome herself, and every man and woman throughout history who has led and fought and died."

 

Jensen's only reply is a sigh of air through pale lips as he listens rapt and silent to the long list of offers that spill before him, and Jared has to cut in, makes himself do it. "Jensen, we have to get home," he says, but he's ignored in favour of the poison that's so much sweeter to hear.

 

"I can show you," the man says slowly now, and even more quietly. "And I can _give_ it if you so will it."

 

"Jensen," Jared shouts now, no longer afraid to be rude and attract attention, "look at me." Like a puppet, Jensen's face swings round to meet his own. His eyes are dark and hollow, limitless in depth like he's seen too much, gazed too deep into the abyss, and for a long moment he doesn't seem to recognise Jared. Then he comes back to himself, slowly, so slowly, like he's crawling his way up out of the ground into the light again, and Jared sighs with relief. "We have to go," he says, adding, "I feel sick" because he knows from long experience that Jensen won't let him hurt if he can stop it.

 

The man seems to have realised he's lost his chance for now. Instead he bows and flips two cards from his inner pocket, heavy rich parchment folded twice over and inscribed with careful ink by hand. "My card," he says with courtesy exaggerated, perhaps, but still present. They read 'Mr Dark' and by the time Jared has finished fingering his with wonder, the man has disappeared, backwards into the night, perhaps swallowed by the mirror house, perhaps riding on the merry go round in an endless ceaseless whirl. Jensen is not yet himself, and Jared dials for a cab with numb fingers, and they wait for a long long time, crouched in the dewing field. At some point Jared closes his eyes, doesn't want to see the endless dizzying unreality of the circus, but Jensen keeps his open, gazes his fill, eyes reflecting nothing of what he thinks.

 

By the time Jared slides into bed, it's all fading, a terrible dream best not remembered. He can't sleep, just watches the rapidly greying sky, night fading into day, and at some point his eyes close and he dreams real dreams, of pounding dark mazes where Jensen runs ahead of him, while Jared begs for his friend to stop and to think about what he is doing. When he wakes, his head aches and he has no sense of the time. His cell informs him that it's almost noon, and his stomach reminds him that he's hungry and it's almost lunch. When he patters down the stairs, only his mother is there. Today is not a work day for her, he remembers, and crumples into a chair.

 

When she turns around, she doesn't sugar-coat her shock. "You look terrible," she says, patently honest, not pulling her punches, her arms set and folded across her chest. "I thought a good, long sleep would’ve helped you rest." Jared can't imagine how he'd look without the sleep if she's shocked at how he looks now. Every bone in his body aches like he'd run a full marathon the night before, and it hurts when he breathes in. Something of it must show in his face because she rustles closer and kisses him comfortingly on the forehead and makes him a cup of coffee.

 

"Did Jensen pop by your room last night?" she asks, stirs in sugar slowly, adds milk. She only ever does that when he's upset, and he guesses it must show too plainly on his face.

 

"How did you guess?" he asks, mind still running on the night before.

 

She snorts a little with amusement, drinks back her own coffee, hot and black like she always takes it. "That hasn't been a secret for a good long time," she says drily. "I've known about you and Jensen sneaking into each other's rooms since about middle school. Long as you didn't stay up too late, your father and I weren't that bothered. I guess it's gotten to be a habit with you two." She sips again from the cup, and her eyes are kind as she watches him. "Is it Jensen?" she asks, and for a moment he's not sure what she's asking him. Jensen is the cause of so many scraped knees, days off school and awkward conversations with his parents, but the way she asks it now sounds different, like there's something else that might be going on, and it takes a moment to click what she's _really_ asking, and he just wants to dig a hole in the ground, crawl into it and pull the earth over his head from the shame.

 

"No, Mom," he groans, because this was the problem he had growing up with a mother who was suspiciously, terribly liberal and open minded. He drinks his coffee, lets the hot sweetness revitalize him, invigorate him enough so that he can face this conversation. Jensen was Jensen, as they so often said, in a league of his own, and whatever had happened last night was more than just a teenage crush, was more than just a doomed romance, he was certain of it. Jensen was up to his neck in trouble, and he needed Jared to keep him from it.

 

Even now he remembers the look in Jensen's eyes, the curious blankness, the tiny reflections of Mr Dark peering from each eyeball, and on instinct he rifles through the pockets of the jacket he'd slung on, the same one as last night, and the distinctive crinkle of paper greets him, and the coffee he'd drunk churns uneasily in his stomach. It hadn't just been some terrible dream as he'd thought. Last night had happened.

 

His mother looks at him, her eyes grey with late morning light, touched with wisdom. "Really?" she asks softly, and for a moment he was sure she wasn't asking if he _liked_ Jensen, but something deeper, more subtle than that. Then she looks away and the moment is broken. "There's a Circus in town," she says lightly, inconsequentially, and a shiver ran down his spine, the quick patter of cat's feet ice cold against his skin. "Strange things, circuses," she says and her voice is slow and strange itself. "You and Jensen like them, don't you?"

 

Caught on the spot, he dances from reply to reply, a clumsy ice skater on a well-worn rink. “Yeah,” he settles on finally. “I think I might have grown out of them finally, though,” and he tries for a smile.

 

“Jensen hasn’t?” she asks quietly. His lack of answer is answer enough, and she taps his hand with her own, a quick patter of fingertips. “You can only try your best,” she says, and he hears ancient, bleak rain in her voice, echoing through emptiness, echoing the autumnal sky outside the window; a lowering grey giving way to a watery blue. “In the end all our choices are always our own.” He sits there for a while, and the thought floods him how little he knows of the parents who have given birth to him.

 

His mother had blown into town on raindrops and wind, settled here one bleak autumn day nursing a broken heart (this has never been a secret- his parents smile secret smiles at the thought of long dead love-affairs,) settled down to write her books in privacy, a recluse in a hotel room, never venturing out. In the middle of nowhere she resided, turned the heating up high and let the storms beat at the windows. She ventured out at night, a shy shadow slipping from one post to the next, wrapped up tight in plastic raincoats and hats pulled down over her face. That was how she met his father; librarian by job, a jack of all trades, never done until the sun was down, and by the third time he found himself strolling next to the strange woman from the hotel (news spread fast round the town) he raised his hat in his old fashioned way- some things stuck deep in towns like this- and wished her a good evening. Like a bird she fled, and there was an empty space on the sidewalk for the next few nights. When next she ventured out it was to the library to browse shelves for the books he filed, to weave between towering bookcases, glide on silent wheeled steps, a small grey owl up high, and he stamped her books, tucked the issue card in with a smile, and pretended he didn't recognise her.

 

Everyone knew that story, knew how she stayed, how the librarian proposed marriage, and they wed on a spring day; the sort of day where baby birds shake the down from their feathers free and begin to fly. But the years that follow are silent mysteries; where they travelled, how they returned as much of a mystery as the return of Jensen's mother, expectant and silent, as unwilling to talk to the town as ever Jared's mother had been. There are gaps in Jared’s knowledge that he cannot hope to fill, stories that belong to only them but that he still wishes to know. _Does she know the Circus_? he wonder; suspects from the downcast turn of her gaze and the little lines near her eyes that perhaps she had once known them quite well,  if under a different name. His parents have always offered him protection, stood as a shield, but this he knows they will step aside on, his first proper foray into real troubles. It must be done, but he shivers in the unaccustomed chill.

 

When the knock sounds at the door, it thuds deep into his soul and he knows without glancing out any windows that Jensen stands outside and waits for him to open up, and he's torn between bone-deep terror at seeing the Circus again and a well of gratefulness that Jensen has come at all. It had been touch and go last night even, and again he finds his fingers wound round strong parchment in his pockets like it will bring him answers, solve his predicament. He sits there frozen at the table, eyes barely blinking as Jensen slips into the kitchen. In the light of the day, he is different, as he always is. After dark he has always been a creature of the night, displaced and foreign, but in day his eyes are clear and bright, and his smile is ready for those he likes. He smiles now at Jared's mother, who dimples in return but does not extend her thoughts.

 

"What do you want to do today?" he asks, casual, hands in his pockets like there is more than one answer, like there is a variety of options open to them, as though even with last night's knowledge weighing deep between them they can easily go bowling, can do all the things they would usually do after an absence this long. Even if he had forgotten all that had occurred and dismissed it as a fever dream, when Jared stands, and his bones hurt, and his legs feel like spaghetti, it would be hard to discount it.

 

"The movies?" he replies, tries to turn Jensen's thoughts away from the inevitable, spreads an array of paths before them like a magician displaying a deck of cards in one smooth sweep when he knows the table will be upended in moments anyway.

 

"Circus," Jensen replies, and there is something hot and dark in his eyes, closer to the night than the day, and his posture shifts suddenly. He's ready to go, ready to leave without Jared, to bound up to the Circus gates and beg to know more. It has always been like this, Jensen running two steps in front, desperate to leave, desperate to escape from their town, wanting more than he can ever be given- freedom from the stares of the town, and the speculation and gossip on the identity of his father. When they played pretend as children, Jensen always wanted to be king, president, caveman leader; anything to escape.

 

"I'm coming," he says, and cold thick dread gathers in his veins, his heart beats slower and all the world seems to fade and darken for an instant as Jensen's eyes narrow, and Jared can't work out if Jensen _wants_ him to come or wants him to stay. Regardless, he's patting his pockets to make sure he's got his phone, wallet and keys, and toeing on his shoes as fast as he can, letting his mother brush a dry kiss on his cheek and whisper to him to take care, the same words she always says, invested with a special significance now, and he wonders again just how much she knows, how much she’s guessed.

 

They walk slowly to where Jared's family's second car is parked, and Jared slides into the driver’s seat and looks at Jensen. "You sure you want to go to the Circus first?" he asks. "It's one pm; it's not exactly going to be active. It won't be until late afternoon that it’ll really start getting into gear." He knows this, Jensen knows it, and there's a silent battle of wills for a second before Jensen gives in, looks away, and pretends to stare out of the window.

 

"Sure," he says. "Let's get lunch, see the sights." There's an unpleasant twist of cynicism in his voice which Jared chooses to ignore as he drives them to some place they can get decent burgers. He's not sure things changed so fast. Within the space of twenty four hours, everything has begun to unravel, to deteriorate in front of his eyes. When he was at college, he used to phone Jensen late at night, just to talk. He can't count the number of times he's fallen asleep with Jensen chuntering softly in the background, like having a phone clasped to his neck while he worked at an essay was no big deal. He's never been so grateful for unlimited minutes in his entire life or ceased being thankful that they've never run out of things to talk about. He doesn't know what he'd expected when he'd come home for what seemed like the final time, but there had been a vague, unburied hope in the back of his mind that leaving childhood behind could lay the ground for something more between them. But from the moment he'd stepped off the train and felt the autumn wind buffet him, he'd known that things wouldn't be easy.

The town isn't ordinary, he knows that somewhere deep down. The summers are hotter, the winters are colder, the springs are sharper and the autumns burrow somewhere inside you and fill you with a melancholy that can be hard to shake off. He can't explain it to his friends, can't even articulate it to himself sometimes, just knows there's something different. It washes people up on its shores, and they don't ever seem to leave, holding fast to the town like this is some tiny pocket of refuge, even with all its faults and all its flaws. Even Jensen, stalking alone through the night brings most of it on himself, Jared thinks with absolute fairness. He thrives on difference, had set his eyes to leaving almost as soon as he understood what it meant, and that is something that can never blend in to the comfortable twilight of the town's existence.

 

“Come on," Jensen says, and there's a live wire spark to him, glinting from his eyes and his face, striking off the soles of his shoes, and Jared follows him like he’s always done, drives them to the field where the Circus has set up like usual. He doesn't know what he was expecting in the light of day- perhaps that Mr Dark would accost them immediately, drag them bodily into the Mirror House- but what he expects is not what he gets. Under the sun, in the cold afternoon air, the final Circus of the year is old and battered, torn and ragged, nothing like the gleaming polished machine of the night before. It's not the same in any particular; the great top sags, and the same old rides glisten and beckon as they have always done; whirling teacups, pirate ships, the Scream, the Vortex, the mirror maze is the same lean-to shack it always has been, faded and storm-weathered, and the people who man the rides and staff the booths look exactly as they should- as tired and worn as their circus. There's no man in a cape sweeping around. There are no cast-iron lanterns with white lights; it's exactly the same circus that comes around every year. On the whirling teacups there's the same stain from the time Karly Reynolds threw up a cherry soda, spilling down the side like whatever colouring in it had been too difficult to clean off, sunk into the chipped peeling wood. Jensen turns to Jared and his eyes are fully open now, confused for a second until that melts away and he nods before him.

 

"Come on," he says, and it's like having the old Jensen back again, when his cold hand slips into Jared's and he tugs him towards the rides.

 

The afternoon that follows pulls Jared back in time. He's done this a thousand times before, beside, adjacent with Jensen, every ride he goes on, every stupid game he plays, every ridiculous exhibit that he looks at. He's slipping back in time, and unbidden the thought rises in his head, that if Mr Dark had known _what_ to offer him, Jared might not have gotten off so easy the night before. What Jared wants isn't emblazoned on the surface, he can't find neat, suave words to articulate  it, can't drag it up to the light and make it curl in on itself. It beats just below his skin and pounds through his blood, as much a part of him as his hair, his eyes, his tendency to make terrible jokes. You can't isolate it, can't put it in a centrifuge and draw it out, make him an antidote. There's nothing there for Mr Dark to grasp, it'll just run through his fingers. Not like Jensen who shines as hard as he tries not to, whose face which is so secret to most, is so easy to read to those who know what to look for.

 

It's easy to reach inside Jensen and draw out his secret thoughts and wants because they float so close to the surface. Mr Dark can offer him power, Jared thinks distractedly as he watches Jensen play a game against the ridiculous strength tester, smacking it down as hard as he can. Power without the need to wait, an escape route already built for him, a slippery slide that he should fear but refuses to. And when Jensen scores 850 Jared lets out an excited cheer, hears the bell ring out, watches Jensen turn to him with a blinding smile that almost chases the shadows from the night before in his eyes away. Jensen drops the hammer on the side and collects his prize with a grin. "Not giving it a shot?" he asks, and there's the faintest hint of a tease there and Jared grins back.

 

"Sure I will," he says, makes a big show of pushing up his sleeves and swinging the hammer in preparation. He likes the look of mild disbelief that Jensen shoots him, contemplates a little more posing before he gives it a go. He hits it as hard as he can- feels the sturdy strength of the hammer in his arm- they've never gone easy between them, and the bell rings out a little higher, scores him a 900 and he smirks at Jensen as he collects his very slightly bigger prize. "Natural talent," he says, and gives a grin that could probably be described as shit-eating at the very kindest. Jensen elbows him in the side for that, heads straight for a challenge he knows he can win. The rifle range is as dilapidated as the rest of the fair, and the wood of the booth is warped and broken. The figures still stand up straight though, and the guns are polished, their stocks shining bright as Jensen hands over his dollars and hoists the gun with confident ease in Jared's direction.

 

"You first," Jensen says and there's a challenge right there in the tone that Jared tries not to think too hard about. He sets the gun to his shoulder and fires the little peppered shots as accurately as he can, doesn't hit a single figure and groans,- slumping with mock failure.

 

"How will I ever live with myself?" he says with exaggerated grief, as Jensen picks up a loaded one and narrows his eyes in concentration, knocks each target down with perfect accuracy, honed from shying stones at crows (and a stint on the shooting team at college, though Jared notices he doesn't tell that to the booth owner who looks on with a grudgingly impressed expression.) When Jensen hoists the ridiculous stuffed moose in his direction with a muttered comment about how God had clearly intended it for Jared, Jared can barely stop a disbelieving smile from tugging at his lips. He has a shelf at home filled with this stuff,- stuffed animals, ugly vases, broken clockwork toys of some sort or the other,- and Jensen has an equivalent one, and it's been a thoroughly set-out convention between them that each circus has a winner. Jensen handing over a prize is not just a once-in-a-blue-moon experience, it's genuinely never happened before.

 

He's holding the stuffed moose for a second with a look on his face that he's pretty sure is _really_ stupid, when suddenly a thought strikes him with dread. "This isn't some goodbye gift, is it?" he asks. "Because I'm going to be really pissed if that's all I get." he tries to turn it into a joke like he always does, but he can't help the unease that creeps in.

 

Jensen gives him an odd sideways look that Jared can't quite interpret. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, but the words fall flat because Jensen's never been able to lie for shit, much though he'd like to think he can.

 

The wind is colder now as it whips around Jared's face. He's suddenly chilled to the bone and the sun is going down early, it feels like. The sky is completely grey now- darkening fast- and the younger children are being taken home by their parents before the rougher evening crowd arrives. As the field empties out around them, Jared shivers reflexively, thrusting the hand that isn't holding his moose deeper into the pocket of his coat and encountering once again the heavy parchment of the business card he'd been given. "You shouldn't do this," he says, but Jensen's already moving towards the Ferris Wheel and doesn't hear him over the sharp whistle of the wind and the sudden burst of carousel music. 

 

Jared trails behind him, looks at the smooth skin between Jensen's hair and the collar of his coat, pale and vulnerable, and is filled with sudden fruitless anger. Always running ahead, he thinks, and he wants to hold tight and never let go, force Jensen to see reason. By the time they've passed over their tokens, the ride is almost ready to start; they scramble into the same cage, same bench, pressed warm against each other against the increasing cold of the darkening air. The air smells of oil and grease, the sharp tang of metal almost comforting in its alienness, and when Jared looks at the tilt of Jensen's head as he looks out over the fairground he's glad of it. His hand twitches in his pocket and he thrusts it stubbornly deeper. Of everything that's been wrong since he's got home, this urge to hold Jensen's hand is the least of it, and he can't bring himself to be embarrassed. As the ride speeds up, he throws caution to the winds, though. It might be breaking the rules of their game to upend it so entirely; not to seek to win in any way, but he doesn't care. Jensen broke the rules first, bent them to his whims when he made Jared fall in love. 

 

When he slides a cool hand across the nape of Jensen's neck in a way that might be joking at any other moment- a way to warm his hands- Jensen turns to look at him properly. They're at the highest point of the ride now, staring out across a landscape that can barely be seen, and the ride has paused. Jared holds his breath for so long he thinks he might pass out, and almost musters the courage to lean forward and change everything between them forever. Then the moment is lost; the ride swoops down and forward so fast that the breath he's just let out is lost as well; the g-force throws him against Jensen hard enough to surprise a startled grunt from him. He doesn't remember this ride ever being so strong before, but has no time to reflect on it; his fingers bend in the wire rims of the cage as he holds on tight for dear life. 

 

When the door opens and they tumble out, Jensen is laughing, teeth gleaming in the faint lights of the booth and Jared still wants to kiss him, tie him close even if just for seconds, offer him something else, but it fades away when in the distance he sees Mr Dark standing there and watching them both, his face a blank white oval devoid of expression. Jared stares back, but when Jensen turns Mr Dark is gone, melting into the air like he was never there, and Jared is filled with a surge of determination. This game isn't over yet, he thinks, and this time it's him striding forward, Jensen stranded for a second in the crowd before he catches up, heading straight for the decrepit mirror-maze.  _ Know your enemy, _ he thinks. This might not be the same, Circus but there has to be commonalities, have to be places where they co-exist, and he suspects that the best place to find them may well be the maze. It is not the test, but it may help prepare.

 

Jensen's questions clearly die on his lips as he takes in where they're heading, sucks in a breath deep and sharp like he's not ready yet, and Jared can't help thinking: good. This is only a taste, after all, of what Jensen longs for. Out of the corner of his eye he spots the merry-go-round, battered and creaky, a few kids clinging grimly to the painted horses while bored parents sip at stale drinks. But when he blinks twice, fast, it's just a wavering shimmering beacon and before his eyes the children age, innocent eyes in ancient bodies, wisdom bought at too high a price. He falters for a second, wonders for the first time if he is crazy, if this is some kind of infection that Jensen has as well, until the faint smell of cotton candy strikes again and reinvigorates his belief.  _ This is happening, _ he thinks, and plunges into the mirror maze pursued by the raucous calls of kids shouting too loudly, voices too high and happy to fit the scene. 

 

If he'd thought outside was dark and cold, in here, surrounded by mirrors lit by dimly flickering lights inset into the corners, is worse. Bone deep chill strikes off the smooth surfaces and at the edge of his vision he sees himself multiplied a thousand times. Jensen is beside him, warm and solid, steady and unchanging, for the first time since Jared had returned. They're silent now, the only sound the sigh of the air as they inhale too deeply. Jared dares to look at the first mirror, sees himself ridiculously short and squat, wider than he is tall like he's been squashed down, drawn out, a sad puffy figure with mournful eyes that gaze back at him and blink slowly. Beside him in the mirror, squashed up close, Jensen looms impossibly tall and thin, peering back with impersonal detached curiosity, strung out and spare, barely a man. And, when he turns away from the sight, his coat flares out a little bit like a black cape swirling around him.

 

Jared lingers seconds longer, meets his own gaze, his eyes the only thing that are the same, sees the whispered implied threat built into the walls. A voice that Jensen can't hear sighs out from the corners of the room, sinks tendrils into his brain,  _ don't get in the way of what was meant to be, _ and Jared feels his skin crease into wrinkles at the edge of his eyes as he frowns, thinks silently back  _ fuck off. _ He doesn't know how much of an effect that will have; he turns and follows Jensen into the next room, looks without seeing into mirror after mirror that distorts and breaks, fractures and shatters him time and time again, mending him only for the space between glances. He can't remember why he thought this was a good idea, pitting himself against this early foe:  _ midnight is the moment, midnight is the place, _ he thinks wildly; this is the mere shadow of what will come. He can’t be sure what fled through his mind, but whatever he had intended, it wasn’t this. He’s pulled along, helpless in Jensen’s wake, from frame to frame, dizzying flashes bewildering his eyes. 

 

From one mirror his face leers out, ten years older, smartly dressed, standing in a courtroom with a man he knows is guilty of the worst of sins; when he blinks, the man shakes his hand and leaves, and Jared smiles.  In the next one, Jensen kisses him, bites at his lips, pushes him down to his knees, and something in Jared goes hot and cold at the same time, forces the blood to his face at the sight even though he knows Jensen can’t see it. He doesn’t look at the next ones, doesn’t ask what Jensen sees, fears the answer too much.

 

Had he thought this would give him ammunition, help him convince Jensen that this was madness? This was Mr Dark's ground, it belonged to him, not to Jared; he could show them what he wanted- only glimpses, naturally, since this clearly wasn't his area of full power, but still enough to repulse Jared (at the same time as it tugged at something deep in the pit of his belly) and to attract Jensen even more. When they stumble out the other side, Jared feels even more hopeless, lost and confused, so far from Jensen though they stand so close.  But he knows in himself that he can't give up, can't just let this happen. That's never been in his nature; he may stare at the earth, but that's anchored him in a way that Jensen, looking far forward into sky, always striving towards the future, has never had - and Jared tells himself that it's a strength. 

 

They make their way back to the car, no more diversions, and Jared drives them back home, silence hanging heavy and thick between them in a way that makes him want to protest, to destroy the quiet with his words, with music. He tries turning on the radio, but it's set to the local soft-rock station and the first song that curls its way out of the speakers is 'Sympathy for the Devil.'  Apart from anything else, the Rolling Stones have never been up Jared's street, so he flicks it off and stares straight through the windshield at the velvet darkness of the gathering nightfall, the harsh flashes of the tail-lights of other cars. He looks at Jensen twice and meets only his turned cheek as he gazes out the window at nothing at all. Tonight is the night, he knows it; he knows that it's not yet time, though, so when he drops Jensen off, he doesn't say anything, doesn't clutch at him or ask him to make promises that he'll only break if he makes them at all. Lets him slide out of the car, leaving a stuffed moose behind him and an empty space. Something in Jared's chest throbs at that, wants to burst through the skin, and he has to sit there for long minutes, watching the light flicker on in Jensen's house, before finally he makes his way back to his own home.

 

His mother is reading, spectacles perched on her nose, incongruous with the rest of her, and it seems all of a piece with the evening that his parents too are aging, withering. He remembers the soft whirl, the hypnotic rise and fall of the merry-go-round, the children flickering from young to old; wonders if they would be tempted, whether it would be enough to make them fall, to have those heady years of youth back again. His mother seems settled here and now, but looking at her he remembers how lightly she flitted from place to place once upon a time, a grey bird on wing racing before the storm, and he twitches, wants to keep her here forever, however impossible that might be when he can’t even be sure of staying, himself.

 

His father emerges from the kitchen, a tray with three coffee cups on it- drinking coffee at night is a habit they've never broken- and they sit in silence, until Jared's mother pushes her glasses up a little bit and looks at him penetratingly. "Take salt tonight," she says, a non-sequitur if ever he's heard one, then shuts her mouth with a snap as though she thinks she's said too much already. It doesn't come up again, but still he tucks some in his pocket- he's not quite sure why, but his mother's advice has never steered him wrong before, then heads up to his room.

 

Jared sits there and lets the seconds tick away, followed by the minutes, in crashing tumbling waves against the clock. His hands are cold even in the warmth of the room; he tucks them close against his skin, an ice-burn against his arms, and waits for the long moments to pass. Every sense seems more alert, as though the later it got the more awake he became; strung tight as a bow, an arrow waiting for a place to go, his ears hearing everything around him. The soft low murmur of voices from his parents: no words to be heard, just the deep thrum of their tones echoing through the walls through some trick of ventilation. It comforts him obscurely, as it always had in the past, knowing they’re close, knowing that whatever happens, they'll be there. _Even if I'm not_ , he thinks. It burns as cold as his hands, as he tries not to think on it; pondering what will happen tonight will drive him mad, if he isn't already for even contemplating this. 

 

Finally his ears catch it: the soft scrape of foot against brick, Jensen slipping down the side of the building. When Jared looks out, all he can see is a black shadow shifting into the bushes; Jared breathes in deep as he heads on down, as well. Despite all the time he'd had to plan, he still isn't sure what he plans to do- whether he will stop Jensen from ever reaching the circus, hold him down if needs must, or whether he'll plead life's case against Mr Dark and trust to what he knew could be between them if they gave it a shot. As he speeds fleet-footed after Jensen, he lets all the thoughts slip away, caring only about keeping up with him here and now. They are slower now than they had been the first time they dashed the mad dash;  Jared is thankful for the respite, though he suspected from the flickerings around them both that the distance is being shortened imperceptibly. Certainly, houses seem to shrink and fade impossibly fast.  He sucks in a deep breath and speeds up just a little bit, until he is pounding three feet behind Jensen, who never stops to turn and look, as though he can't hear Jared behind him.

 

There is a shiver of sound around his ears and a light weight settles on his back, sweeps dust-wings around him, skinny arms going round his neck. "Faster," says an old grey thin voice, and a cracked giggle follows. "I'll tell you how it goes, boy," and a sharp heel digs into his back. "We're obliged to let you attend, this you know is right and true. We're not obliged to allow your voice to be heard; this, too, you must know," and grey powdery dust flows into his mouth, coats the inside, covers teeth and tongue, binds them tight. He sucks in a terrified breath. This isn't _fair,_ he thinks, and she sniggers like she can hear his thoughts. "There is no fairness," she says. "This is your friend's choice to make." She slip-slides over the word friend as though to mock it, strip it of any retaining power, ridicule him for his naive presumption that he could stop this.

 

Determined now, he runs faster despite the deadening weight of the old woman on his back. If he can't speak, can't convince Jensen with his words, he'll have to stop them from ever arriving at the place where he'll make that choice. He's taller, faster, he knows this, and he sets his mind towards the task, strains every muscle.  And, as they widen out on the road, he makes his move: almost leaps through the air and brings Jensen down, rolls them over and over, gravel scraping through too few layers, bright sharp pinpricks of pain, and opens his mouth to tell him _no._

 

A pathetic deathless squeak emerges and he tries once again, but Jensen is already rolling away, staring at him as though he can't believe his eyes. "Jared," he says, and the tone is indefinable, but the surprise is there. He hadn't heard Jared run after him, had been lost so deep to his own thoughts, he hadn't thought to turn around even for a second. "You can't stop me," he says.  He sounds determined, but underneath there is a fast running current of doubt. "I've read about them, what they can _give,_ " he says, and Jared thinks of library shelves coated with grey dust, a man stamping out Jensen's books, Machiavelli, Alexander the Great, the history of power, Eisenhower not Roosevelt, Churchill not Lloyd George. And there, bound in black, dark tales of travelling power, mysterious deals; he pictures Jensen, age twelve, on the nights he wasn't out running with Jared - head underneath the blankets as he devoured the possibilities.  Then, at fifteen, putting away childish tales and taking up the moral within; eighteen, striking out for gold and leaving; twenty one, and taking back those dreams, going back to basics. "They can give me it all, Jared," and he shrugs hopelessly. "I can't pass this up, I _can't_ ," and Jared wants to shout at him, wants to shake him until his teeth rattle in his head, because _what is the price._ What will they take from Jensen in exchange? He catches the tremble in Jensen's mouth, knows that Jensen has thought about it and decided whatever he's giving up is worth it.

 

They struggle fruitlessly, hopelessly in the dirt for a few moments before Jensen wriggles free despite Jared's best efforts. "Tell me to stay," he says and his eyes are wretched, his hands fists by his sides, "tell me that this is wrong, that this isn't the best way, and I'll stay."  He takes Jared's silence for acquiescence; Jared can't blame him, because he's kept his mouth shut in the past and let Jensen careen helplessly towards disaster, followed behind him without the sense of a dog in his head. Now, when he tries he can't unblock himself; can't spit out the desperate plea for Jensen to stop and think about this.

 

Can only watch Jensen jog away, head down, shoulders hunched. Then he stands, hands dangling uselessly beside him because what is the point? He swipes a weary hand across his face and hears his mother as clear as day as though she was beside him, his father's warm solid presence as well, and hears her favourite saying- the one she always used to trot out when Jared complained about school group projects or grumpy old ladies who hit out at him with umbrellas when he tried to help them with their bags. _Sometimes the people who least want your help are the ones who most need it._ A little of the malaise that had settled over him lifts, he is warmed, his mind feels a little clearer. When had a setback ever stopped him dead in his tracks? If he doesn’t have words, he'll have to find another way to convince Jensen. 

 

He starts running again, noticing vaguely that sometime between the fight and his resolution that the old woman on his back had vanished. He feels lighter, stronger; his legs work just fine now, stronger than he'd thought - and he has a goal, a fixed objective in his mind. He can do this. Slow and steady will win the race after all. It is with little surprise that he rounds a corner that should never have been there and finds the circus spread out before him like an undead carnival. If he tilts his head just right, it doesn't look exactly like the first time he'd seen it- a carnival of fifty years ago decked in black and white - it has taken on different lines, a different shape. Now it gleams entirely afresh and anew, modern minimalism at its finest, and he understands deep within his bones that the carnival is shaping itself to Jensen's desires, enticing him in with sharp-edged promises. The merry-go-round is sharp sticks of white candy now, nebulous clouds instead of horses, and alone the Mirror Maze is only black, the same dark forbidding looming centre-piece it always is. 

 

Even that has changed, though; as Jared gets closer, he can see the shape is imperceptibly changed, that the house now looks as though it could be the twin of Jensen’s own. The same ivy crawls up the side and the empty windows glisten bleakly. Despite himself, his footsteps slow as he approaches. They’re not in there, there’s no-one here at all, and he lets instinct guide him for the moment. The little bag of salt in his pocket meets his hand as he thrusts it in for reassurance; as he passes the now wavering shooting booth whose mirror he and Jensen had played at on an afternoon that seems so long ago, he leans across the counter and unhooks a rifle. It’s not designed to hurt, he knows that objectively, but it feels as though it belongs in his hands and he wonders briefly if it was the same one that he’d fired earlier. Even if it could hurt, he knows that he only has one chance with it, and that chance is slim. Still, it’s something to hold; something that glistens in his hands. He hesitates for long seconds, not sure where to go next. Before him there is the grey and black striped tent, canvas rustling in a non-existent gust of wind; behind him stands the mirror house.  He shivers suddenly, sure that someone is watching him.

 

When he turns, though, nobody is there and he sets himself a little more firmly. Tent first, he decides, and sneaks round to the back of it, presses his ear up close. He can hear a muffled murmur of voices, but can’t distinguish words or tones - just that it seems to be an argument. Silently, carefully, he moves around until he finds a tiny gap in the material, just enough to put his eye to it and see what’s going on inside. There’s just darkness at first; then his vision adjusts and he can make out unmoving figures standing, staring at the slightly raised platform where Mr Dark stands and harangues them. His ears are still muffled, but he can see Mr Dark’s mouth move; can see the wide gesture of his arm as he pulls Jensen up on stage beside him. Jared blinks quickly, barely willing to miss a moment of what is going on, but once his eyes flicker open again, he finds himself staring into the dark unblinking abyss of Mr Dark’s eye- black, ringed with yellow that looks as though with the slightest provocation it could erupt into flames. The canvas parts in front of him, welcomes him in, and an ironic cheer goes up from the crowd. On the stage Jensen stands still and Jared wills him to meet his eyes.

 

“There’s nothing you can do now,” Mr Dark breathes into his ear. “People make their own choices in this life, Jared.” At the edge of his cuffs and collar there are tiny flickers of movement, like something crawls beneath his shirt that can’t be explained, something that’s excited. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” he says, and one thin bony hand brushes back Jared’s hair. “When he goes into the night, he doesn’t have to be alone, you know.” And perhaps Jared had been overly optimistic in assuming there was nothing that could tempt him, nothing that Mr Dark could read from his eyes and his heart. Still, he shakes his head, stubborn to the bone.

 

_ “You can’t have him _ ,” he thinks, and his only answer is a deep rich satisfied chuckle. Mr Dark leaves him standing there for the moment and walks back with due patience to Jensen.

 

“You all witness this,” he says with a smile. “A deal is a deal, after all. There is no cheating here. No hidden clauses. There is only an exchange.” He pauses and lands a firm hand on Jensen’s shoulder. “This young man wants to take on a very heavy burden; wants to do a lot of good with it as well,” and he waits for the crowd to murmur its agreement: a consummate performer, the ringmaster leading his flock on their merry way. “We’ll give him the opportunity to do that. All we ask is that when the time comes he’ll have to do one thing he is asked. As per his request, he is assured that it will harm nobody; that he will not be asked to use any power he has accrued for anything evil. Our word in this is binding.”  He looks round sternly.

 

Jared is confused to his core. He’d assumed that the whole point of the deal that Mr Dark wanted to make was to have a puppet he could use in whatever position of power he could secure for Jensen. But _one_ request didn’t seem enough. As though Mr Dark could hear his thoughts, he turned towards Jared and smiles, letting one eye close in a wink that could’ve been described as saucy if it hadn’t been terrifying on that almost skull-like face. His eyes flash green for a second; Jared almost chokes, wishing the binding was off his tongue so he could _warn_ Jensen.  He can’t understand why he doesn’t see Mr Dark’s intentions. Still nothing comes out of his throat.  His fingers feel numb and heavy- he can’t even draw the rifle up to his chest.

 

Every member of the circus is filing out slowly now, forming a guard of honour to escort Mr Dark and Jensen to the mirror house, their eyes flat and shiny in the light of the moon.  Jared feels the familiar clutch of the Dust Witch’s arm through his own. “Cheer up, dearie,” she says. “Change has to come.”  It so bitterly echoes his thoughts of the last thirty-six hours that he has to laugh despite himself.  He stills as it makes its way past his lips and rings out clear in the darkness. The dust hasn’t dissipated enough to let him talk, but it feels thinner and lighter in his mouth, like soft ropes binding instead of iron chains.

 

As he walks with the rest up to the house, his mind turns that over frantically, looking for every shred of advantage. Laughter helps, it’s clear. It doesn’t belong in the darkness or to this solemnity. There are no clowns in the ensemble that trails behind him, not even sad painted smiles. He thinks hard of funny things, of light, lets silent laughter hiss from him, heady giggles welling up in his throat.  He feels the twitch of the old crone’s arm next to him in warning, but his mouth is loosening, his arms are lightening, he can feel the weight of the rifle once more in his hands, can remember the salt in his pocket. Best of all, he can feel optimism returning, replacing the fear and the worry. Things are never as bad as they look.

 

He doesn’t let the Mirror Maze dampen his new found hope; knows if he lets it go, he won’t get it back again. Holds on tight to every good thought he can think of: his mother and father, hands joined across the table.  How Jensen looks when he’s happy - and if he hadn’t already known deep down how he feels about Jensen, then it might have come as a shock to him how many memories he has that consist just of Jensen; entire summers spent in his company, how deep his smile is burnt in, and he concentrates on it solely. This is power of its own kind, he’s sure of it. Power enough to loosen his tongue, free his arms and maybe give him a chance to stop all this from happening.

 

When they are deep into the bowels of the House, he averts his eyes as best as he could from the flickering scenes that march across the mirrors as though they are more portals than reflections.  He notices with a shudder how whatever squirms under Mr Dark’s shirt seems more active than ever here, as though it is in the company of its own kind. With solemn procession, they thread their way through to the largest room of all, sheathed completely with mirrors, light emanating from no source at all.  Jensen steps in, right up close to the glass, and Jared takes his chance. _Let me say goodbye_ , he broadcasts as loudly as he can at Mr Dark, injecting it with every ounce of doom and gloom that he could muster - hiding his light under a bushel and hoping that it will work.

 

“Very well,” Mr Dark says. His face is inscrutable; a little younger now, perhaps, as though he is feeding from the collected hushed presence around him, as though he siphons it from Jensen in preparation for the exchange that will of necessity set Jensen on the path he will need to take in order to one day _become_ Mr Dark. Jared steps forward, pretending that he is yet weighed down by dust and ashes and the death that should be marked upon him still.  Jensen focuses on him for the first time, green eyes distant as though he is struggling to remember; struggling to swim back up out of the soupy morass that is dragging him down, convincing him that this is a good idea. Mr Dark might have spoken truth about not lying outright, but cheating was within the rules of the game - for who would take up his burden willingly?

 

Jared hesitates for a second, hoping that it will be enough, then coughs forth the last of the dust from his mouth, and leans forward to kiss Jensen for the first time and possibly the last. Breathes into him every shred of the happiness he’d collected on the way, the happiness for which Jensen had searched for so many years and imagined he’d never found. Presses the rifle into the unresisting hand, feels fingers fold around it, around a weapon that can’t kill but can still do its duty. “It’s your choice,” he breathes as they part; he understands that now. Mr Dark is right- it is Jensen’s choice in either direction.

 

He feels a hand wrench him round, all Mr Dark’s debonair calm vanishing as he hears Jared’s words.  There are fingers at his throat now and the claws he’d seen before are lengthening, sharpening, digging into him as clothing shreds. Behind the rags gleam violent tattoos of every man and woman that had come before, taken their fill of power, and then been forced into serving time, inked and etched on, living and transferrable from body to body as each new one takes on the burden of the circus until they find another willing to make the same choice. His fingers fumble uselessly in his pocket for the salt and fail to grasp it. A retort sounds across the room; the small metal bb embeds itself into the mirror and from it runs a thin spiderweb of cracks that spread and cover the room entirely, shattering every reflection. And Jensen is there, wrenching Mr Dark away from Jared, his face finally fully alert and aware, staring in horror at how close he’d been to accepting the offer made.

 

“We should run,” Jared says, as calmly as he can, as Mr Dark keeps changing and growing, dark fur sprouting, eyes gleaming entirely, utterly consumed in his transformation, the tattoos, the  _ illustrations  _ that cover his body the only things that remain intact, terrifying in their humanity, the only bit that remains to him. Jensen nods and lets go, and they run as fast as they can through the shattering rooms, the lights flickering out completely, until they are solely in the dark.  Tiny flecks of glass sting their hands and exposed skin until, for protection, they both cover their faces with their arms and run completely blind, following the faint gust of wind that blows through: blessedly free of scent, just cool and faintly rainy against them. Behind them, in the darkness, stalks Mr Dark, in his element but unable to force them to acquiesce, his power limited by his own rules.  For the sake of security, Jared folds his fingers around his small salt bag and tosses a handful behind him, not sure what it might do to help, but also sure it can’t hurt. 

 

When they stumble out into the open air, the first thing they feel is fresh droplets of rain. Despite the stinging pain of the numerous tiny cuts across his hands, Jared smiles again. Jensen takes his hand to pull him onwards, towards the bright headlights of a car in the near distance. Strong hands take his elbow and help him in; despite being nearly blind in the dark and the rain, Jared knows it’s his mother, knows his father has Jensen, and he lets himself sag. Questions can wait until they’re home. 

 

It’s not until they’re inside and some of the shock has faded that Jared can believe they’ve escaped, that Mr Dark isn’t with them still, just waiting. He sips numbly at the warm liquid his father presses gently into his hands, feels the fierce blaze of dandelion liqueur down his throat, heating him up instantly in a way that the fire leaping in the hearth failed to do, while beside Jensen stares dully at his own glass.  His mother leaves the room with a small bunch of twigs in her hands; he hears her light footsteps in the hallway before she returns. “I feel so stupid,” Jensen says finally. “I came so close to saying yes, and just because I wanted things _faster_.”

 

“There’s no shame in that,” Jared’s mother says reflectively as she tapes another small stick above the window in the room. “Better safe than sorry,” she says to nobody in particular.

 

Quieter, Jared’s father speaks. “We knew you’d be at the circus,” he says, answering the silent question that had been there all along. “But it’s not something we could interfere in.” There’s something brooding and dark in his voice; Jared senses, rather than sees, his mother squeeze his hand comfortingly. “Not tonight,” he continues, “but some night, I’ll tell you how we knew.” He stands and stretches. “For now though we’re off to bed. We’ll give you a chance to chat.” He holds out his hand, and Jared’s mother takes it again, leaves them with a pat on the shoulder and a whispered good night.

 

There’s too much to say between them and no good way to start, so Jared does the obvious, turns his hand palm up towards Jensen and holds it out. Jensen’s fingers close on his, cold and strong, and something in Jared sighs with relief. They’ve overcome this; and whatever marks Mr Dark has left, whatever remnants remain, or how far-reaching they are he’s pretty sure they can deal with them. Even the separate paths that they might take, don't frighten Jared, not now. Something will always bring them back together.

 

He’s not surprised when Jensen kisses him, not after everything else tonight- thinks he might never be surprised again- he’s just bone thankful that Jensen feels the same way. Jensen's mouth is sweet with the last of the dandelion wine, the taste of summers past, recovered again.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback welcome as always, and on this particular piece especially, concrit.


End file.
